The crave
by luacuof
Summary: "John, uh. I am worried I might have said too much last night. I should shut up when I am high." (Set in "A scandal in Belgravia". Johnlock of course.)


_Strange memories_ on this nervous night at 221b.  
Suspended in a feverish insomnia, sitting in my chair, incapable of rest, I think back at the last few hours.

There's him calling for me from his bedroom, not even one hour after telling me that he would not need me because he was absolutely fine.  
There's him searching for my hand and taking it and dragging me to lie down on the bed so close to him and looking at me with a scarily intense gaze that _must_ mean something.  
There's him trying to uncover himself from the blanket and me telling him to stop or he's going to catch a cold and "thank you, you are always so caring".

There's him randomly telling me that this hair suits me, and this shirt suits me, and then sitting up and staring at me as to find out what else suits me tonight.  
And of course I sit up as well so now there's him coming closer and putting his head on my shoulder, and then hip lips on my shoulder, and then his lips so close – too close to mine and such a strange little smile and again that look. But I... turn my head just very slightly and the moment is gone and he lies down again and curls up next to me.

So, there are the two of us on his bed. He is lying face down, moaning, and I am sitting by him like he's a patient. And then just like that something in me urges me to touch his hair.  
He turns and looks at me. And this is the prologue of our rather bizarre tragicomedy.

"What do you think of me, John? You are never truly honest with me. You never tell me what you think of me."  
"I always tell you what I think of you."  
"What do you _really_ think?"  
"What do you believe I think?"  
"You are the one that must tell me."  
"No, you tell me."  
"I can't."

It's an impasse. Mutual challenging smirks... Far West duel style. He conveniently passes out for a while.

"What do you think of me? Please, you must be honest. I won't remember tomorrow anyway."  
 _Oh not again!_ "I think you are the smartest person I know."  
"Not this bullshit."  
"What then?"  
"Do you like me?"  
"Yes, of course."

Pause in which I _saw_ it happen.

"Would you fuck me?" Not audible, just mouthing.  
" _Uh_?"

He _chuckles_. I pretend not to understand – that's definitely the strategy I am going with.

"I am better than you all think I am at understanding this kind of things."  
"Which kind of things are we talking about?"  
"I read your blog."  
"Yes. So?"  
"You have got some potential as a writer."  
"Thank you."

He sleeps for a few minutes, occasionally raving without emitting voice. Now and then he opens his eyes and stares at me with irises blank as those of a corpse.

"Why are you always so caring?"  
"Because I am your friend."  
"Why are you here?" Same smirk.  
"I live here Sherlock."  
"I mean here here."  
"Because I am your friend, you are not well and I am keeping you company. Do you want me to go?"  
"No."

He very slowly starts touching my hands, my arms, my back, my hair, my face, with an appalling gentleness, looking at each part of me with an intense curiosity that I have only seen in him when he's looking at a crime scene. Somehow I am a _crime scene_ right now. He draws me close, inescapably, and I, for the second time, turn my head away very casually. I don't know why. Well, I know why, I don't know if I regret it or not. I will, anyway, know soon enough.

"Could you bring me some water?"

I bring him water. Tension dissolves for a while. He sleeps. Then he asks me to accompany him to the bathroom. I do. He washes his face, stares at himself in the mirror quite judgingly clinging at the sink.

"John."  
"Mh?"  
"Do you know how amazing you are?"  
"Oh. That's nice to hear, but you are under the influence right now so I am not quite sure it counts."  
"That's precisely why I am telling you. I think you are an amazing human being. I care so much about you. I would not tell you in a different situation."

I try to find something to say but his eyes are distracting me.  
"I am sorry. Enough with the sentimentalism. Help me get back to bed."  
"...okay."

Again he drags me on the bed with him, this time I am lying over him, so absurdly close and still he is looking at me with those eyes.  
This time I don't draw back.  
Oddly enough the first thing that comes to my mind is _I don't think I am going to write any of this in my blog_.  
When our lips part he's staring at me with the same grave gaze. Only, I know what it means now.

"Would you turn the lights off for me?"

 _For me_ is quite clear. This battle is over. I am not sure who won. I turn the lights off.

"Don't close the door please."  
"Goodnight."

And this is how the most bizarre night of my life came to an end.  
So here I am, in my chair, listening to his breaths like I have been doing for the last three hours. All night long I listened to him breathing, sometimes moaning. Hundreds and hundreds of his breaths. Enough for a lifetime.

He's waking up now, I hear him moving. He walks towards the kitchen.

"Good morning Sherlock"  
"Good morning John. Tea?"  
"Please. How are you feeling?"  
"Better, thank you. Did you sleep in the chair?"  
"Oh, yes, I wanted to be sure I heard you if you called".  
"How very _caring_ ".

Of course.  
He shuts up for a bit, but he doesn't resist more than what it takes for the tea to be ready. He hands me my cup.

"John, uh. I am worried I might have said too much last night. I should shut up when I am high."  
"That would make you a much quieter person."  
"Ah, very funny."  
"What did you say that you reckon was too much?"  
"I said that... I care about you. I am afraid I will regret that."  
"Why?"  
"Because this is the way I am."  
"You would rather have me thinking you don't care about me?"  
"I would rather have you thinking nothing."  
"I rather think you care."  
"Really?"  
"Really."

"John... did I say anything else?"

He did tell me he wouldn't remember after all.  
…or does he?

"No, luckily you slept like a baby"  
He looks at me and I could swear he still has got the ghost of that smirk on his face.

"Luckily".

[Just a silly little thing to celebrate S4. The opening sentence is of course a quote from Fear and loathing in Las Vegas.]


End file.
